I've Just Got One
by Shirleylocked
Summary: Sherlock wasn't always a sociopath, and he wasn't alway as sharp as the consulting detective he became. But one thing held true from his youth all of the way to adulthood...he only ever had one friend. After thinking his only friend had abandoned him, they are reunited once again, and thrown into a world of their own.
1. New School

Hello lovely people of the world... I have a new story for you...

It will go through each series, with a slight twist (duh, or else it wouldn't be any good for a fanfiction then wouldn't it?) Anyway, most of the quotes will be recoignizable. I will do two episodes from each series and make up something of my own. Hope you like my idea.

Please remember that I do not own Sherlock...at all.

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Part I

The Study in Pink

* * *

New School

Harriet gently smoothed out John's plain button down shirt and attempted to smile at him. The twelve year old boy didn't smile back though, no, he never did. He knew far too well that the smile was forced, that nothing ever changed no matter how many times he moved. The other school kids would always pick on John and Harriet, and they would always come home to a drunken and abusive father. It never mattered where they 'relocated' or how many times Mother said that Father would quit drinking.

Twelve years old, John was short for his age, and hated it. He was always teased for his height relentlessly. His brown hair was short, he couldn't manage having his hair any longer than an inch, as his father would yank him up by his hair if it were any longer. His eyes were deep blue and could rival the ocean in beauty. He stood up extremely tall, trying to compensate for his lack of height, and in spite of his teasing's and beatings, he looked extremely confident. Too confident for a twelve-year-old, to say the very least.

Unlike most kids his age, he welcomed the long sleeves and pant legs of his school uniform. While it was stuffy and restraining, it also hid all of the bruises and scars that his father undoubtedly left on him—and continues to do so.

He never quite understood why people always picked on him. He would admit that he was shorter than he was supposed to be and sometimes quite quiet and reclusive. Overall, though, John was nice, polite, and good-natured. He didn't understand how his only friend had been a brown Labrador named Hunter—a dog his father had deemed unnecessary after it had lived as John's most loyal best friend for seven years. (Harriet had always told John that Father had put the dog up for adoption, but John knew better. He was there when his father broke Hunter's spine, he had been the one who buried Hunter under a willow back at his old home a hundred miles away.)

John was a nice, smart kid, and he could never understand why that didn't count for something to all of his school mates. He was the best friend none of his school mates would ever have. He didn't mind so much that he didn't have friends (he could have done without the teasing, but didn't seem to mind that too much either). He was alright with being by himself, because by himself, there was no one to hurt him…not a single soul could bring him down.

"Things will be better here." Harriet said, pulling John out of his thoughts.

"Don't lie, Harriet, you know how I hate it." John said. "Ready to go?" She nodded and they left their small house together. They only lived half of a mile from their school and walked in companionable silence down the road to the school. Harriet was older than John, though not by much, but John wishes he were older, so that he could move away and get free of the mess at home.

They made it to the school yard after a few minutes and instantly Harriet was swept off by a gaggle of girls. She had always been popular, everywhere she went. She turned and frowned at John, a look that clearly said '_Be careful, see you after school._' John nodded back to her and forced a slight smile.

"Hello." John heard the voice but chose to ignore it. He kept walking through the grounds of the school. "Hey! New kid!"

_I despise that name! It's always the same, no matter where I go. _John frowned, but knew he was obliged to turn around now and look at the taller boy with dark brown hair. He had blue eyes and a mischievous look about him. He walked up to John and held up his hand.

"I'm Anderson. I'm supposed to show you round today. What's your name?"

_What is my name this time? New school, new name, new identity, new problems… What am I this time? _"John Smith." John answered quietly, shaking the hand he knew would be pushing him down into the ground in a short week.

"Nice to meet you…" Anderson said with a small smile. "You're in sixth aren't you?"

"Yes." John nodded. _I should be in seventh…teachers says I'm too smart for sixth… Father won't let me go though…_

"You're kinda short aren't you?"

"Just a little bit. I moved up a year." John lied, thinking it might help his cause a little bit. Perhaps he wouldn't be teased as much.

"Smart kid, huh?" Anderson asked with a slight, _almost_, friendly smile.

"That's what my teachers told me." John shrugged as the boy led him to his first class.

"This is the chemistry lab. Mr. Carson is the teacher, he's not as strict as some of the other teachers, you should be alright. See you later?"

"Sure." John shrugged before he walked into the chemistry lab. Every seat was taken, save one next to an extremely thin boy with curly black hair. He was taller than John, but only by an inch.

"Master Smith is it?" The teacher asked, looking up from his desk.

"Yes, sir." John nodded. Everyone turned to look at him, except for the boy with curly black hair.

"You may sit next to Master Holmes." He nodded.

"But Mr. Carson—!" The boy protested, glaring at his teacher.

"Sherlock Holmes—"

"I work much better on my own. I don't need someone slowing me down." Sherlock said in an annoyed voice. John felt a slight bit offended, the boy didn't even know him, but was already judging his intellect.

"You don't run this class Mr. Holmes, I do." Mr. Carson insisted.

"Could have fooled me. I'm better than you at this class." Sherlock muttered under his breath. John heard him, but the teacher obviously didn't.

"John, you can sit next to Sherlock. Ignore his antics." The teacher warned quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back down at his microscope. John slowly sat down on the right side of the boy and pulled out his books and note book, opening to his chemistry section. Sherlock glanced at John for a long moment, looking him up and down slowly. John realized that the boy beside him looked no older than nine. His face was angular, but the most stunning feature the boy had was his grey-blue eyes.

"You're too smart for this grade, yet you haven't advanced to the next level. You have notes over this class already taken and work already completed from the text without any guidance. Why would someone hold back someone so smart? You've broken your left wrist before, obvious by your hand writing. Your confidence is forced, you're compensating for something, perhaps it is your height for your age—as I am taller than you and you must be at least twelve years old. Why would you need to be so confident? Bullied perhaps? Yes, indeed your eyes widened, proving me correct. You don't deserve the treatment you get, but you are obviously bullied a lot, considering you are used to being the new kid at school. Your parents must move you around a lot because of the bullying. It follows you then. You must be slightly reclusive then as well… You have an older sister, judging by the hand writing on the front of your notebook, leather bound, obviously a Christmas present last year… Did I get anything wrong?"

"Wow… That was amazing." John said with wide eyes.

"That's not what normal people say." Sherlock said with a slight blush (obviously he enjoyed the complement).

"What do normal people say?" John inquired with one eyebrow raised.

"Shut the hell up, freak." Sherlock smiled.

"You're not a freak. You're just smart. People are intimidated by people who are smarter than they are." John shrugged.

"That's why my teachers despise me." Sherlock smiled smugly and held out his hand toward John. "I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"John Smith." John replied, taking the boy's hand and shaking it. John looked down at where the boy's sleeves were rolled up. There were scars along his arms, especially along his wrists. They were white against his skin and somewhat difficult to see, but John's eyes were used to scars and could instantly pick them out. He could see the shapes of some of them. "Why did you do that?" John asked in an upset voice. He could tell they had been self-inflicted, they were too neat to be abuse.

Sherlock looked down and rolled down his sleeves quickly, buttoning them up. "No one's ever seen them before…except for my ridiculous older brother." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the mention of his brother.

"Why did you do that?"

"I got bored." Sherlock shrugged. "Sometimes I get too much in my brain…and I have to get rid of it. Sometimes I can't delete things, so I have to force it out."

"You shouldn't hurt yourself like that…" John stated.

"What are you, some sort of doctor, Dr. John Smith?" Sherlock smiled, a real smile, without the typical smugness.

"I want to be…" John sighed.

"But…?" Sherlock wondered. "What's holding you back? I'm sure you would be a wonderful doctor." Sherlock complimented. Something Sherlock wasn't used to doing, but he felt comfortable around John, like they belonged together—no matter how cliché that sounded (even in Sherlock's brain).

"Father doesn't want me to. He wants me to go into the family business." John shrugged.

"You don't have to listen to them. My whole family is into politics, but I'm not going to follow them into that."

"What do you want to do then?"

"I want to be a detective." Sherlock shrugged. John smiled at him. "I could solve all of the crimes that the dimwit inspectors call 'cold cases'."

"I'm sure you could."

"Much better than running a country. Running a country would be boring."

"Sure it would." John nodded, smiling.

"Hope you become a doctor John, I'm sure you'd be wonderful, you've got quite steady hands." Sherlock noted before he looked back into the microscope.

"I'll bet you'll be the greatest detective ever, Sherlock." John stated. "You're too smart. I'm sure all the criminals in the world will have to relocate." Still looking at the slide through the microscope, Sherlock smiled.

As was the first meeting of John Smith and Sherlock Holmes…a start of a great friendship.

* * *

Well this is the beginning of my new story... Hope you like it, tell me if you like it or not... :)


	2. Of Kisses and Broken Hearts

I am going to put up the first part of this story, as it comes in three parts. I will write one part at a time and when I'm done it will be uploaded. Jut so that i don't have too many things gonig at once.

Still don't own Sherlock or any of the scars...

Warning, self-harm and abuse. If you are on the tender-hearted side of things, don't read.

* * *

Of Kisses and Broken Hearts

"Sherlock?" John called, walking through the mansion towards the room in the very back of the west wing. He went unnoticed as usual. In fact, after knowing Sherlock for four years he hadn't met anyone else in his family, nor any of the people who served his family.

"John…" A deep voice called out. It sounded weaker than John was used to, and instantly he hurried to Sherlock's room. He pushed open the door and looked around the room for Sherlock. In the far corner of the room, Sherlock sat, curled in a ball. A bloodstained razor sat in front of him.

"Sherlock…" John whispered in a pained voice. He ran to the en suite loo and grabbed bandages, towels, water, and a first aid kit. He ran to Sherlock's side and knelt next to him. "What have you done to yourself? You were doing so good." John said as Sherlock held out his arm to his friend.

"You're angry."

"Of course I am, I'm furious, Sherlock." John admitted.

"You're worried too… Why?" Sherlock asked at John began to clean up the blood.

"You're my best friend Sherlock. You're my only friend. I care about you." John said, he cleaned up the wound to find two words carved into his friend's arm over and over again.

_Fag_

_Freak_

"Oh, Sherlock…" John stated in a sad voice. "Why do you listen to the other kids? They are all idiots." He said, disinfecting the wounds.

"I can't get their words out of my brain. I needed to get them out, John." Sherlock stated.

"Then talk to me, Sherlock…dammit! Why can't you just talk to me? Why can't you tell me when you get worked up like this?"

"I don't want to bother you with this. They pick on you too, John." Sherlock said in his 'all knowing' tone. "Obvious."

"I always have time for you Sherlock. I want you to tell me when things are bothering you. I don't what you to do this. You're my best friend Sherlock."

"You're my best friend too, John…but why don't you ever talk to me about these things."

"Because I don't hurt myself when I get bored or angry or sad for that matter. I cry or yell, you've seen me do that before."

"Crying is dull." Sherlock complained as John wrapped his arm.

"Well I know I can be very dull, us normal people have a tendency to be dull." John shrugged, slightly stung by Sherlock's crass comment. Sherlock noticed it and placed his good hand on John's shoulder.

"You're not dull, John… You're amazing." Sherlock insisted, staring into John's eyes. John picked Sherlock up and sat him on the bed before he retrieved the razor and placed it in his pocket, promising that he would dispose of it later—somewhere where Sherlock wouldn't find it again.

"Are you feeling alright?" John asked, sitting next to Sherlock.

"Much better. You really are going to be a good doctor…you're so gentle…" Sherlock blushed and looked away. John smiled at the compliment.

"Am I?" John inquired.

"Yeah…" Sherlock sighed, looking up at John. He wondered briefly if John's lips were as soft as his hands were. _FAG! _The word was screamed at Sherlock in his mind. He winced but tried not to take the word to heart. He looked at John with a question in his mind.

"You should ask, you know. I can always tell when you have a question." John stated; bending down to pick up the cloth he had used to clean Sherlock's arm. He placed it in a hamper.

"You've kissed people before right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, twice I believe." John said as he straightened out Sherlock's desk, the disorder in Sherlock's room always bugged him—so his actions were quite normal.

"What's it like?" Sherlock inquired, looking down at his bed, ashamed.

"How could you not know Sherlock? Dear god, you're more handsome than half the boys at our school. I would expect you to know this by now." John commented. He turned and saw the embarrassed look on Sherlock's face and knew that Sherlock was telling the truth. "Really…you've never…?"

"No, John…" Sherlock said slowly, his voice cracking, jolting slightly back into its high register before settling back into the baritone it was changing into. John moved slowly and sat back down next to his friend. "Is that wrong?" Sherlock asked. John gently ran his hands through Sherlock's untidy hair.

"No…it's not." John promised as Sherlock looked up at John.

"Does it make me odd?"

"You are odd whether you've kissed a million people or not, Sherlock." John chuckled and Sherlock smiled at his friend's comforting words.

"You never answered my question…you only asked your own question in turn. What does it feel like?" Sherlock wondered.

"Like…" John sighed, unable to come up with words to describe it. He knew how valuable Sherlock's precious 'data' was, but he didn't know how to portray it. Suddenly he came up with the best way. He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock's. He had never kissed a boy before, he had never been interested in boys…though he had to admit he found Sherlock quite attractive.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the feeling of John's soft, warm lips against his. His eye lids flickered closed when he felt John's hands run through his hair. Warmth flooded his body at the gentle, loving touch. _He's just trying to show me what it is like…he doesn't truly care. _Sherlock thought to himself, but when he placed one of his hands to John's neck in an attempt to pull him closer he thought differently. _Pulse elevated… Could he be attracted to me?_

They pulled away from each other slowly and stared into each other's eyes. Sherlock instantly noted that John's pupils were massive, leaving next to none of his beautiful blue irises visible. "John…was that…good?" Sherlock asked, their faces were still only a few inches apart.

"Most…definitely…" John said, staring into Sherlock's eyes.

"May I?"

"You never have to ask again…" John replied just before Sherlock kissed him, cupping John's face in his hands. John could never say that Sherlock was a slow learner. Five seconds could make Sherlock an expert at anything and everything—even snogging.

Several minutes later they were lying down next to each other on Sherlock's bed, wrapped up in each other's arms. "John…" Sherlock asked, rubbing John's lower back in soothing circles with his thumbs.

"Mmm?"

"Weren't you supposed to be home soon? It's five-thirty." Sherlock observed by the angle of the sun.

"Shite!" John cursed, pulling away from Sherlock quickly. "I can't be late today!" He looked at Sherlock and frowned. "I'm sorry that I have to leave…"

"No…it's alright. I understand. I wish you could stay." Sherlock sighed, sitting up. "I get bored without you."

"You can't get too bored, I'm terribly dull company."

"Don't sell yourself short."

"Quit with the short jokes, Sherlock." John snapped. He kissed Sherlock's cheek gently. "I have to run."

"I'll run with you to the gate, Mummy won't let me go much further right now." Sherlock said. He grabbed John's hand and they both ran quickly through the mansion and through the immaculate gardens that surrounded it. They stopped together at the gate. "Thank you for fixing my arm… I'm sorry about that…"

"No problem, just don't do it again, Sherlock, I mean it." John commented. "I'll see you tomorrow, first thing, alright?"

"See you, John." Sherlock nodded before John took off running away from the mansion towards his home. Sherlock felt lighter than a feather as he walked back towards his house. His lips and cheek still tingled from when John had kissed him.

As he entered the mansion he ran head-long into Mycroft who looked down at him with curious eyes. "A bit flustered aren't you?" Mycroft inquired.

"I feel fine." Sherlock said with a huge grin on his face.

"A bit of snogging can do that to someone… Oh, don't look so shocked, your smile and your overly red lips give it away. Who did you sneak into the house?" Mycroft questioned.

"None of your damn business, Mycroft." Sherlock said, turning away from him, not allowing his brother to make his mood foul. Mycroft's eyes narrowed on the back of his nearly fourteen year old brother, who seemed more human than he ever had before.

_Who could have made my brother this happy? They should be given a medal. Sherlock needs to be happy. Who knows…he might stop cutting now… _Mycroft smiled happily and began to walk away, making it his goal to learn who the mystery person was.

888

Weeks passed and Sherlock and John only grew closer, caring for each other more than most married couples do. Sherlock hadn't touched any of his hidden razors in that whole time, and John had been finding more and more ways to get out of the house. Often he told his mother that he was being 'tutored'—which John had to admit, that spending time with Sherlock _was_ a form of tutoring as he was so smart. They were more than a simple couple or partners, they were best friends as well. They knew everything about each other. They could practically read each other's thoughts and moods.

They were walking slowly out of the school side-by-side. "John, how come I never go to your house? You always come to my house…" Sherlock wondered.

"I…uh…"

"Is it your parents? Are you afraid they might not…get us?" Sherlock asked pointing between the two of them.

"Yeah…" John said lamely, a lie, but Sherlock didn't need to know that.

"Oh…" Sherlock shrugged. "I was just curious. Are you coming over tonight? I'll play for you. I know how much you love to hear the violin." Sherlock smiled at him, his alluring, tempting smile that practically screamed _Try to defy me_.

"How can I say no when you tempt me like that? I'll be there. Six?" John wondered.

"Yes…indeed." Sherlock agreed. John looked up and saw Harriet waiting for him. "When am I going to meet her?"

"When am I going to meet Mycroft?" John retorted.

"Touché." Sherlock nodded.

"I'll be there Sherlock… I love you." John said with a smile. He knew Sherlock wouldn't say likewise, Sherlock wasn't ready for that, but John knew he loved Sherlock.

_Tonight_, _John_. Sherlock thought silently as John waved and walked to meet his sister. Sherlock was ready to tell John he loved him, and was going to tell him tonight, with the song he had composed—while he was bored (obviously). He wanted John to know, and he would know in a few short hours…

John and Harriet walked home in silence but they both looked on in horror when they saw their father's car parked outside of the house. John didn't think he could make it to Sherlock tonight, and he felt terrible for not being able to tell Sherlock he wouldn't be there. They walked into the house and dropped their bags in the entryway.

"John!" The deep, dark voice sounded from the living room. John and Harriet glanced at each other and John walked into the room slowly. He stood in front of the sofa and stared at the angry man on the chair across from him. John's eyes noticed the black leather book on his father's lap and wanted to run and hide. "Would you want to explain to me what this is?"

"My journal…" John said slowly, in a resigned voice. His father nodded and opened the book.

"_Sherlock played the violin today. I never knew he could play, though I suppose I should have assumed he could. Sherlock really can do anything, nothing should surprise me when he is involved anymore. He looks beautiful when he plays, so intent on what he's doing, so lost in the music. I wish I could kiss him when he's like that, but I wouldn't forgive myself if I interrupted his music…" _John's father slammed the book down on the side table. He glared at John with his dark—nearly black eyes. "Did I raise you like this?"

"Like what?" John asked after a moment of silence.

"Did I raise you to be a faggot? Did I tell you that you could go around snogging all of the men you want? Did I tell you that you could snog anyone for that matter?" He asked, livid. "Do you know how many times you've lied to me and to your mother? Turns out you haven't been struggling in school, not a single bit. You lied to us so that your faggot ass could fuck around with this boy. Who the hell is Sherlock anyway?"

John did his best not to wince, not to move, not to show any fear at all, but he knew he should be terrified. He didn't care about the beating he was yet to receive. He was worried about the aftermath. Whenever his father beat someone within an inch of their life, they had to move again. John was terrified that he may never see Sherlock again. Never get to kiss his perfect lips or run his hands through those black curls.

"I hate lies, John, and you've lied to me more than a hundred times in the past few weeks." His father stood up and grabbed the leather belt he had around his waist, undoing it and folding it in half in his hand. "Take off the shirt, now." John slowly pulled off his shirt and walked to the wall placing his hands on it. He couldn't count how many times the belt hit his back, nor how many bruises he could feel coming. When he heard them stop he turned and saw his father looking at the book again. "You're friend cuts himself huh? Maybe he should, the little faggot. Hopefully he dies." John moved forward and punched his father in the face, effectively breaking his father's nose. "You bastard." He threw John to the ground and kicked John in the side with his steel toed boots. John whimpered as he felt at least three of his ribs break.

_**Sherlock**__… _John cried out in his head, wishing his love would hear him. Hoping that somehow he would come and save the day. _**Sherlock**__... _John winced as a second blow broke another rib. John heard a switchblade open and felt the familiar cuts begin to line his back. He held as still as he possibly could, knowing that moving would not save him. Some part of John's mind could hear Harriet crying, but he ignored it. His only thoughts were of Sherlock, praying that Sherlock would forgive him.

888

Sherlock paced in the grand foyer of his home, not even glancing at Mycroft who stared at him as he paced. "John again, then?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, shut up…" Sherlock said quietly. _Seven-thirty. Where is John? He's never late…_ Sherlock wondered, pacing.

"He'll get here eventually. He cares about you." Mycroft promised.

"I know he cares…" Sherlock agreed. But Mycroft was wrong. John never showed up…never graced Sherlock with his presence. Sherlock went to school the next day, downcast, but hopeful to see John. John wasn't at school either, though and it worried Sherlock to the point where he cried at lunch.

"Crying over that stupid fag huh, Sherlock?" Anderson asked in a taunting voice.

"Sod off." Sherlock sniffled.

"He's gone you know. Moved out of town. Heard he got bored with you." Anderson stated.

"That's not true." Sherlock snapped.

"Yes it is. Walk to his house. It's empty isn't it? Nothing there left to show that there was once life there."

"You're lying! John wouldn't leave me. He couldn't." Sherlock protested.

"Go see for yourself, fag." Anderson snapped. Sherlock ran away from his school, stealing the phone book to locate John's house. At a sprint he made it to the house in three minutes, only to find it completely empty and a for-sale sign in the yard. Sherlock fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.

"John…" Sherlock cried for a moment before he rushed home as quickly as he could, not stopping the entire way.

888

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock pushed through the door before school was even out.

"Sod off!" Sherlock shouted, disappearing into the west wing. After a few minutes of shocked silence Mycroft followed after his brother. He found his brother unconscious in his room, a razor in his hands, the floor bloodstained. His arms and legs were dripping blood.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, calling the servants as quickly as he could before he began to wipe the blood away from his brother's arms. What Mycroft saw burned at his heart. One word was carved into Sherlock's skin, over and over and over again.

**John**

* * *

Oh...poor Sherlock and John... I'm ready for the onslaught of hate.


	3. So Familiar

Next Chapter. :) Reunion. Yes most of the script will be the same... I'll slowly start to deviate. (but seriously the script is so briliant you have to include some of it...or most of it.)

Still don't own Sherlock.

* * *

So Familiar

"John? John Watson?" John turned his head to look towards the voice that had called out to him. "Stamford." The man said, gesturing to himself. The name instantly rang a bell in John's mind—though which bell he wasn't quite sure. "Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together."

"Yes, sorry, yes." John stated, realizing that the man held out his hand. He switched his cane into his opposite hand and took Mike's. "Hello, Mike."

"Yeah, I know I've gotten fat." Mike teased slightly, letting go of John's hand. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" He wondered curiously.

"I got shot." John nodded, leaning slightly on the cane, subconsciously. He hated the ruddy thing. He had survived years of torment, but one shot had crippled him. He hated the idea that he could be so easily broken by something. He hadn't minded taking the shot to the shoulder, after all he had done it to save his patient, a young boy who had earned the right to live and go back home after his service in Afghanistan.

Talking to Mike was welcome for John. John had very few friends, and speaking with one made his life seem a bit more normal…though normal wasn't particularly John's cup of tea. "Are you still at Bart's then?" John asked conversationally.

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them." John chuckled, he wouldn't have called himself bright—actually he wouldn't have called anyone bright—as compared to a friend John had once had. He didn't find anyone intelligent anymore. "What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension." John stated regretfully. He wished he could. Perhaps he would be able to locate said genius again, though he doubted he would find him. If the man was anything like John's memory of him, he would be living completely reclusively, away from all of the ordinary people.

"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah I'm not that John Watson." John thought aloud. He wasn't even born John Watson. Jonathan Martin Freeman, a name he despised entirely. As soon as he had escaped his father he had changed his name. John Hamish Watson. Watson and Hamish, were both in honor of his foster parents who treated him as if he was their own son—kindly, lovingly, tenderly, as a real family was meant to be. John…because _he _had called him John, and John couldn't part with that.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike wondered. John chuckled dryly.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." Harry wouldn't do anything significant to help him after he had tried to get her sent to a clinic to help her with her addiction to alcohol, and he refused to bother his foster parents who happened to have taken in two more young children.

"I don't know. You could get a flat share or something."

"C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" _I'm a washed up man with PTSD… Who'd want to deal with that on a day to day basis? They would have to be crazy themselves. __Stamford looked at him oddly__._ "What?"

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today." Mike explained.

"Who's the first?" John wondered.

"He shouldn't be too far away, unless of course he's dashed off again. I'll take you to meet him. He's a bit odd, you probably wouldn't mind that, as you're a bit odd yourself." Mike chuckled. "Your leg up to it?"

_Damn right it is. It better be. _John snapped at himself, forcing himself to stand, ignoring the pain. Psychosomatic limp, indeed, but it still hurt. John soon found himself walking along the inside of Barts. Things were much different than he recalled. More advanced.

"Bit different from my day." John commented as they walked into a lab together. Mike started to reply, but the third man in the room spoke.

"Mike can I borrow your phone?" The deep—somewhat familiar—voice asked. John looked at the man, he did look extremely familiar to John, but he couldn't figure out how. "There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, moving forward slowly, almost hesitantly.

"I prefer to text." He answered easily.

"Sorry, it's in my coat." John still didn't understand how he knew the man in front of him, but he trusted him enough to let him borrow his phone.

"Here, use mine." John offered, digging his phone out of his pocket.

"Oh…" He said slightly surprised. "Thank you." He commented, genuinely grateful. John heard Mike introduce him, but didn't pay any attention. John watched as the man walked close to him. His saw the man's grey eyes run over him briefly before he took the phone and began to text. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?" John asked incredulously. How could the man tell such a thing with one look?

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked again.

"Afghanistan… Sorry. How did you—?" John wanted to finish the question but a petit, gentle looking girl breezed into the room.

"Ah! Molly. Coffee, thank you." He smiled slightly, but then his brow quirked. "What happened to the lipstick?" He wondered. Her eyes widened slightly.

"It wasn't working for me." Molly lied after a second. She was obviously flustered and John could tell she had some sort of crush on the man in front of them.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement, your mouth's too small now." He said easily. John's eyes widened at the blatant disregard for the girl's feelings.

"Okay…" Molly said slowly before turning and leaving. John noted that the man must obviously act that way often, because Molly didn't seem all that fazed by it. John looked at Mike, but all he offered was a slight smile.

"How do you feel about the violin?" The man asked.

_Love it, but only one person I know can play it well. _John thought to himself. "I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I am thinking, sometimes I don't speak for days on end… Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." The man smiled at John, though it seemed slightly unreal.

"You told him about me?" John asked Mike. He didn't know how Mike could have told him, they had been together the whole time.

"Not a word." Mike replied truthfully.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John inquired.

"I did." He said, picking up his coat as he kept his back turned on John. "I told Mike that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't a difficult leap." He said in a sure voice—almost smug.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked curiously.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London." He said, ignoring John's question. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

_Riding crop? Mortuary? Wait, seven o'clock? What? _"Is that it then?" The man pulled back to look at John. The tall man looked quite attractive in the long black coat and stunning blue scarf. John wanted to shake his head. He had never been attracted to a man before, not since…

"Is that what?" He asked in a curious voice.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat." John said in a steady voice.

"Problem?" He asked nonchalantly.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." John said. Was this man crazy? The smug smile returned on the man's face and his grey-blue eyes glittered

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." He said, glancing at John's leg before the same taunting smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He swished out of the room with a flourish before popping his head back into the room. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

John's eyes widened. _Sherlock Holmes? Sherlock… _John wanted to run after the man, but didn't think his leg would allow him to. _No wonder he's so smart, so quick on his feet… God…he still plays the violin. Did he recognize me?_ John doubted it. His hair had lightened with age and his face had grown full of lines of worry. He didn't even recognize old pictures of himself, why had he expected Sherlock to remember him? John suddenly came to the conclusion that perhaps he shouldn't tell Sherlock who he was. He doubted that he left Sherlock without a scar when he left so abruptly and didn't want to bring up the time again.

"Yeah. He's always like that." Mike said, guessing—incorrectly—as to why John looked so stunned. Not realizing that he had just seen an unknown reunion of an old—scarred—couple. The thought made John wonder is Sherlock had any new scars that needed tending to.

* * *

Nothing too bad in there. :)


	4. The Detective and His Brother

This wa originally two seperate chapters. There is some kidnapping and some revealing of pasts... Bare with the slow start. :)

* * *

The Detective and His Brother

John stared after Sherlock who had just run down the stairs of 221B joyously, quite possibly forgetting that he had left John alone in the flat. John was vaguely aware of Mrs. Hudson who was prattling about. She was a nice woman, John thought, very kind, like Mrs. Watson his foster mother. "I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"DAMN MY LEG!" John shouted, angry that his _stupid _injury had held him back yet again. While Sherlock was running around the city after—serial suicides?—a murderer, John was left behind. "Sorry… I'm so sorry… It's just sometimes this bloody thing…"

"I understand dear, I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"A couple of biscuits too, if you've got them." John commented looking at the paper next to him. Trying to read about the suicides.

"Not your housekeeper."

_Yes you are… _John smiled slightly. John nearly leapt out of his skin when a baritone voice filled the room. Sherlock had silently entered the room with the grace of a jungle cat.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor." Sherlock observed. His mind mentally winced at something, something to do with the combination of the word John and Doctor in his brain, but he couldn't be bothered to figure out what was irritating him.

"Yes." John nodded, standing.

"Any good?" Sherlock wondered.

"Very good." John said, unable to resist a bit of boasting.

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths…"

"Well. Yes." _Come on Sherlock. _Army _Doctor, put two and two together. I know you're good at math._

"Bit of trouble too I bet." Sherlock observed.

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John lied, he loved the thrill of the chase, perhaps a self-destructive trait he picked up as a child.

"Wanna see some more?" Sherlock smirked, seeing through the lie.

"Oh god yes." John agreed, chasing after Sherlock as quickly as his aching leg would take him. The pair of them made their way into a cab and Sherlock instantly busied himself with his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the keys. His eyes caught sight of the strange look on John's face and he sighed, lowering his phone.

"Okay, you've got questions."

"Where are we going?" John asked curiously.

"Crime scene. Next?" Sherlock said easily.

"Who are you? What do you do?" John asked.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective..." _because that's what you wanted to be, but…_

"But?" Sherlock asked, reading his mind as he always had.

"But the police don't go to private detectives." John observed and Sherlock smiled.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." Sherlock said in a smug tone. He glanced at John. "You were surprised when I asked you about Afghanistan."

"How did you know about that?"

"I didn't know. I saw. The way you held yourself, your haircut, the tan that didn't extend past your wrist or neck, it all screamed military… The conversation as you entered the room, army doctor then. You were obviously shot… So where can a military man receive that kind of injury and tan? Iraq or Afghanistan."

"My brother?"

"The phone, John. Harry W, obviously a brother. The drunkard part was a leap made by the scratches on the phone. When Mr. Harry Watson attempts to charge the phone every night his hands shook, scratching the phone, a drunk then—which would earn disapproval from you, but the fact that Clara gave this to Harry and Harry gave it to you shows a dysfunctional marriage that perhaps you also weren't so keen about. Therefore you have a problem with your brother and you are too proud to ask for his help."

"That was…amazing."

"People don't say that, you know." Sherlock said with a slight smile, proud to have received a compliment.

"What do they say?" John wondered, hoping that people didn't treat him so harshly anymore.

"Piss off." Sherlock stated. John smiled and shook his head.

"They're ignorant." John stated in a sure voice.

"Of course they are. They overlook genius when they see it so plainly in front of them." Sherlock agreed, getting out of the cab and paying the cabbie as John followed him towards a taped off crime scene.

"Hello freak." A tall woman stated. The casual comment reminded John of the taunting tones Sherlock used to receive when he as a child. The taunting that drove Sherlock to cutting himself to 'delete' it. "What are you doing here?"

"I was invited, Donovan." Sherlock said easily, sliding under the tap. His nostrils flared. "I didn't know that you didn't make it home last night." Donovan's eyes widened before she turned to John.

"Who are you? Did you follow him? Did he drag you along?" She inquired.

"John Watson, an army doctor and a colleague." Sherlock said briskly. "Now let him by, we need to see the scene before your people contaminate it." Sherlock insisted, pulling John towards the building quickly, away from the woman. They walked swiftly to the door where a tall man stood.

"You better not contaminate the crime scene, freak." The man snapped.

"I will be lucky if I ever come across a scene you haven't contaminated yourself, Anderson." John's eyes widened at the name of the man in front of him. If it was the same Anderson he remembered from school, John recalled breaking his nose to protect Sherlock's honor.

"Yeah right." Anderson scoffed.

"Is your wife gone for long?"

"Someone told you that." Anderson rolled his eyes.

"No, the fact that Sally Donovan is wearing your deodorant tells me that she never made it home last night. I'm sure she just happened to pop by to chat and ended up scrubbing your floors going by the state of her knees." Sherlock brushed past Anderson as John held back a giggle.

In the recesses of the building John, Sherlock, and Lestrade stood around a body. Quickly Sherlock determined everything about the victims life, with particular detail as to where the woman had been in the past few hours. John found the detective's thought processes to be amazing, beautiful…and just as attractive as they had been in school. He felt like it was only a matter of time before he practically tackled the man in front of him. The man he had never stopped loving…the man he had compared everyone to.

Before John could contemplate what the significance of _PINK_ was, Sherlock was already out of the building, looking for whatever clue his mind already realized was out there. John slowly limped down the stairs and got out of the ugly blue suit he wore before he dragged himself outside, past a _charming _Sally who claimed that Sherlock could never have friends and would forever be a crazed psychopath, but John knew already that those things weren't true.

John toddled down the side walk, freezing for a brief moment when he heard a phone ring. He paused for a moment, but kept walking, not caring about it. His mind was more worried about the fact that Sherlock had taken off into the city with a serial killer on the loose, a serial killer who didn't care who they killed.

John found himself walking past a restaurant only to hear their phone ring as well. John turned to look and saw a man reach for it, but once he had almost touched it the ringing stopped. John shrugged and continued until a phone in a red booth began to ring. Irritated, John got into the booth and picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Jonathan Freeman." John instantly tensed at the name, only his father and once his mother called him that.

"Who is this?" John asked, his voice shaking in anger.

"There is a camera in front of you, do you see it?"

"Yes…"

"And the building to your right?" The voice said. "And finally over the café… Get into the car Mr. Freeman, I don't think I need to threaten you. You already know what kind of situation you're in." John looked at the sleek black car that pulled up against the curb and John walked towards it after hanging up the phone, trying not to limp, but failing. He got into the car and waited silently as the driver took him to some unknown destination.

John looked out of the window at the scene around him. It looked like a cross between a large parking garage and a humongous warehouse. John got out of the car and limped towards the soul man who stood, leaning on an umbrella in the dimly lit world. "You could have called me. It was clever what you did, but you could have just called me, on my phone."

"Do you want to sit Jonathan?" Mycroft asked, gesturing to the seat in front of him. "That leg must be bothering you."

"Who are you and how do you know that name?" John asked in a no-nonsense tone.

"Ah, Captain John Watson has come out to play now…" He said with a smug smile. "My understanding of you doesn't matter, what matters to me is only what your intentions are with Sherlock Holmes."

"What do you mean?" John wondered.

"You saw him yesterday and already you have invested in a flatshare and you have followed him to assist him at a crime scene. What are your intentions toward him?"

"What does it matter to you?" John asked in a harsh voice.

"Let's just say I'm an interested party. He would have me named his archenemy in a heartbeat, but it is not truly so." The man said, twirling his umbrella. "I worry about him, constantly."

"How do you know about me?" John's phone went off in his pocket and he retrieved it. Mycroft stood silently as John read the text.

_Come at once if convenient._

_SH_

"I know a great deal about your past, and Sherlock's for that matter. I am well aware that you once went to school with Sherlock and the two of you were once involved in a very happy relationship that ended quite abruptly. You went home one day to a rather vicious beating that nearly led to your death. You're family cleared the entire house that night, put it up for sale and took you half-way across the country to find a hospital. However, Sherlock waited hours for you that night, hoping to finally express his true feelings for you, but you never came. You wouldn't understand how upset he was about that." John's phone went off again and he looked briefly at the screen.

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_SH_

_Could be dangerous._

"And you do?" John asked in an icy voice, putting his phone away. Dangerous? Was Sherlock in trouble? The man holding the umbrella took two steps forward and held out his hand to John.

"I'm Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. I am glad to finally meet you." John's eyes widened and he gently shook the man's hand. "Though, I suppose I shouldn't be glad to see you. You caused both my brother and I a great deal of pain."

"What happened to him?"

"Anderson told Sherlock that you left him, hating him. Sherlock ran to your house to find it empty… I still think he has scars that clearly say _John _all over his body." John's mouth fell open in horror. "If I hadn't gotten to him when I did, we wouldn't be talking about my dearest brother right now. He's hated me ever since for stopping his death, and hated me even moreso when I put an end to his cocaine and morphine addictions. My brother has never felt a thing for another human being since you, John."

"What can I do about that?" John asked.

"Tell him who you are… Tell him that you love him, for god's sake. He needs someone there for him."

"He'll hate me for putting him through all of that pain… I can't lose him." John said in a pained voice.

"Perhaps he will, but at least his mind will understand what happened all of those years ago. Perhaps he'll finally rest for once in his cursed life." Mycroft looked John up and down. "Please tell me that you truly loved him, if not now, at least at some point."

"I meant what I said…and meeting him again…only confirmed it in my mind once again." John nodded slowly, blushing.

"Well, if you do intend to move into 221B Baker street, could you please send me some information from time to time? I will pay you for it I assure you."

"You want me to spy on him?"

"Nothing too personal, I just need to know what he's up to from time to time."

"That would be a betrayal of trust, something I will not do." John insisted.

"Of course…" Mycroft nodded. "He's brought you back to life, John. You have a tremor in your left hand—thought to be associated with post-traumatic stress—but already it has steadied. You don't fear the war, you miss it, and Sherlock gives it to you doesn't he? Am I to hear a happy little announcement soon? Mummy would be quite pleased."

"I can't—"

"Think it over, Watson…" Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "Even a "high-functioning sociopath" needs someone to care for them. Believe me, Sherlock is no sociopath. He has feelings, he has buried them so deeply in his mind so that he doesn't need to feel the pain they bring him. Perhaps you're the right person to change that…or not. Either way." Mycroft turned and began to walk away. "Goodbye, Dr. Watson. Congratulations on that by the way…he always said you'd be a wonderful doctor."

John stood stiff for a moment before he limped to the car. The woman holding a blackberry didn't look at him as she asked for his address. "Baker Street, 221B Baker Street…but we have to stop off somewhere first." John said, remembering his gun that hid in his desk drawer.

_Could be dangerous…_

John would make sure that no matter how dangerous it was, Sherlock remained safe.

888

John took the stairs slowly before he walked into the flat. Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. "Is that three nicotine patches?" John asked looking at Sherlock's arm.

"It's a three patch problem." Sherlock replied easily.

"You said you needed something." John stated.

_And he came the instant I asked…very loyal, very quickly… Why? _Sherlock wondered. "Ah, yes. Can you send a text for me?"

"You want me to send a text for you?" John asked, not at all surprised, Sherlock never had done anything he thought was boring or dull.

"Yes…"

"Why didn't you use your phone?"

"The number could be recognized, as it's on my website. The number's on my desk." John walked to the desk and began to fill in the number in his phone. "These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street.'"

"You blacked out?"

"No—Just send it." Sherlock said, sitting up and looking through a pink suitcase next to him.

"What is that?"

"There was a problem with the body… She was a modern woman…but she had no phone on her person or in her bag, that means it had to have been in her suitcase. The suitcase had to have been with the murderer, obviously, but as clever as the murderer is he would have realized within five minutes that he had the suitcase. Not sexist, but it is statistically more likely that this is a man. I searched every place within five miles of the crime scene. It took me only an hour to find it…"

"That's the pink lady's suitcase?"

"Yes, exactly." Sherlock nodded. John stared at Sherlock in awe. This man was truly a genius, and that was ever so attractive. "Oh, and I would like to mention that I didn't kill her."

"Do people often think that you're the one behind the murders?"

"Occasionally yes." He smirked an adorable smirk before curling up his long, lanky body on the armchair. "Her phone wasn't in the suitcase either, which made me wonder exactly where it was."

"She could have left it at home."

"Did you not pay attention? String of lovers. She's careful and smart, she would never leave her phone at home. So, where is the one place it can be?"

"Did I…did I just text a murderer?" John asked in shock.

"I am so glad you catch on quickly. You are a lot smarter than those fools down at Scotland Yard." He smiled genuinely at John. The phone to John's left rang loudly.

"Any normal person would ignore that text…a murderer…would panic." Sherlock smiled widely. "Hungry?"

"What?"

"Follow me." Sherlock insisted, pulling on his coat and scarf. John watched as the man breezed out of the room. John grabbed his Browning from his ankle and placed it behind his back in his waistband before he followed after Sherlock, limping.

* * *

Will John tell Sherlock? I don't know... Want to help me out on that one?


	5. The Shot

This was also two chapters, but whatever. I see that people are already reading this, which makes me smile. I just keep adding the chapters I have finished all while I am watching Merlin, and I keep getting alerts, awesome. Reviews would be better, just saying... They would make me smile. :)

OH!

**By the way. This chapter is a combination of both The Study in Pink that we all love, and the unaired Pilot that I also loved. So...just in case you started freaking out about that... Here's your answer. I do love the 'get drunk' for a case Sherlock, It's amazing. :)**

* * *

The Shot

"I'll get you a candle, makes it more romantic." Angelo stated with a sly wink towards John.  
"We're not dating." John stated, but Angelo had already left.

"Keep your eye on 22 Northumberland." Sherlock commented as he took a small drink of water.

"I met your archenemy today." John commented.

"Oh really? Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Actually, he did, yeah."

"Did you accept?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No."

"Dull. We could have split the fee, think it through next time."

"I'll try to." John nodded. "Normal people don't have 'archenemy's'."

"Normal? What is normal for people to have then exactly?"

"Boyfriends, girlfriends, family, friends, people they dislike."

"Dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend then?" John wondered. _Please say no…please say no…_

"No, not really my area…"

"Oh…Boyfriend then?" John asked. Sherlock looked at John strangely, with narrowed eyes before he slowly shook his head.

"No… I'm truly flattered by your interest, but I consider myself married to my work—"

"No—I was just curious is all." John said, willing himself to _not _blush. _God…he's single… Oh how I wish I could change that…but he would never trust me if he knew…no one would…_

"Why taxi?" Sherlock asked suddenly, glancing out of the window. "That's clever… You can hunt in a crowd and never be seen…oh! That is so clever. Angelo?" Sherlock called loudly.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Sherlock smirked and said something that John didn't quite comprehend.

"Ah, I loved that case!" Angelo stated as Sherlock slashed wine over his face and front. "Repeat performance?"

"If you would." Sherlock nodded. He sagged slightly and Angelo grabbed him by the lapels of his coat.

"Get out of my restaurant you worthless drunkard!" Angelo said, dragging Sherlock out of the restaurant and threw him towards the street. "And stay out!" John watched Sherlock as he stumbled across the street towards the taxi. "Don't worry, he always has a plan." Angelo said to John. John watched as Sherlock's body slummed in the arms of the cabbie after a few minutes.

_That slum looked awfully real. _John thought. "I think something's gone wrong." John said as the cabbie lay Sherlock in the back seat of the cab. John saw Sherlock lean up slightly and make eye contact with him.

_Help… _Sherlock's eyes said to John, before he slummed against the seat again.

"Something's definitely gone wrong." John stood up and ran out of the restaurant . By the time he made it to 22 Northumberland the cab was long gone. John looked around angrily before the proverbial light bulb went off in his head. He sprinted quickly to 221B Baker Street and dashed up into the flat. He glanced at the tag on the suitcase before turning to his laptop. He thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock had rubbed off on him slightly. The lady in pink really was a genius…and so was the note on the floor…

888

"You're pretty resilient to drugs, Mr. Holmes." The cabbie said quietly as Sherlock tried to sit up in the back seat of the cab, he managed to do that but only just.

"Where are we?"

"You know where we are, I don't have to tell you that. You know every street in London." The cabbie said.

"How do you get them to follow you—oh dull." Sherlock said when the cabbie pulled out a gun.

"I don't need to do this with you… You can't hardly walk without my help. If you could though you would have followed me. You're curious…" The cabbie grabbed Sherlock and began to guide him towards the building on the right.

"Why here?" Sherlock asked as they made their way through the door. He could feel the drug starting to lose its effect.

"Because it's empty… It's a quiet place to die."

"Who says I'm going to die?" Sherlock asked as he was led into a chemistry lab.

"I do…" The cabbie said setting Sherlock down on a chair. The cabbie moved and sat across from Sherlock as he rested his head against the table. His head ached but he was starting to feel strength in his muscles again. He slowly sat up and looked down at the table.

"How did you get them to take the poison?" Sherlock wondered. The cabbie smiled and pulled two bottles out of his pocket. He set both of them out in-between them. "You gave them a choice." Sherlock said in realization.

"And the best part is that I'll take the one that you don't take." The cabbie stated.

"I could just walk away. I don't need to do any of this. I'm strong enough to walk away now." Sherlock commented feeling the fuzziness the drug had caused in his mind and body fading away.

"If you don't play, I shoot you. No one's taken that option."

"I'll have the gun please." Sherlock commented.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock smiled and the cabbie pulled the trigger to the gun, but only a flame appeared. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"The other's didn't."

"Clearly, they would still be alive otherwise…" Sherlock smiled and stood up. "Well, I think we're done here."

"Why don't you play the game? See if the all-powerful Sherlock Holmes can beat me." Sherlock slowly turned back before sitting down across from the cabbie.

"It's like chess, Mr. Holmes. Here's my move…" The cabbie moved forward the bottle on his left and looked back up at Sherlock. They stared at each other before Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to make a move of his own.

888

John saw the blinking light on his laptop stop in a college and instantly he flipped the laptop closed before taking off out of the flat and onto the streets of London. He got into the first taxi he could, stealing it from someone else, promising to pay double. He got into the taxi and called out the address he had memorized. "The quicker you get there the more I'll give you." John insisted in a panicked voice.

John opened his wallet and laid out several bills before he nearly launched himself out of the car as he arrived at the college. He looked between the two buildings and ran to the one on the left, pulling out his Browning. He ran through the building, searching for Sherlock, for the cabbie, for anyone.

"Sherlock?" John called through the halls. John caught the sight of a slight bit of light in a room down the hall. He ran into the room and saw that the light was coming from the building opposite of him. He saw Sherlock standing in the middle of a room, looking up at a pill in the light that came from the ceiling. "SHERLOCK!"

John could see the cabbie saying something to Sherlock, lifting a pill of his own as Sherlock pulled the pill closer to his lips, his hands shaking. John could see nearly everything in his life go through his head. He thought of all of the beatings, all of the war, the blood, the devastation…but nothing disturbed him more than the sight before him. Sherlock was going to die and yet John felt like he was the one standing in that room preparing to die.

Instantly the Browning was in John's left hand. It took him only a second to consider the still wind between the buildings, to factor in the distance, and to aim for the heart of the cabbie across the way. John's left hand was completely still when he squeezed the trigger. One single shot rang through the air and into the cabbie. John smiled before he ran from the room. He quickly ran from the room knowing that the man he cared about was safe. Sherlock needn't know that it was John that pulled the trigger, though John knew that Sherlock would deduce it somehow.

888

Sherlock looked at the annoying orange blanket on his shoulders and glared at Lestrade. "They keep putting this blanket on me, why have I got this blanket?" Sherlock asked.

"It's for shock."

"I'm not in shock." Sherlock retorted. Lestrade refrained from rolling his eyes, of course, the consulting detective would never be in shock.

"What happened?" Sherlock sighed and began to recount the story, explaining how ill the cabbie was and why the man killed all of those people—for money for his kids _of course_. Lestrade took notes on the case until Sherlock quit talking. He put away his pen. "Whoever shot the cabbie has gone and disappeared. We have no way of tracking him down."

"I wouldn't ever say that." Sherlock commented.

"What do you know about the man who shot the cabbie?"

"Obviously, he was a crack shot. The bullet fired was from a handgun, that would have had to have been a perfect shot. The sniper's hands couldn't have shaken at all. That would mean that the shooter was acclimatized to violence. He didn't shoot until I was in mortal peril, which suggests a strong moral character… You're looking for a military man with flawless morals…nerves of steel…" Sherlock's eyes met John's and he instantly knew who the shooter had been. The man stood silently, twenty feet away at parade rest. He was unnoticed except by Sherlock who stared into John's eyes.

_John had shot a man… John had killed a man. A doctor had shot a human being_. _John shot a man for me. _Sherlock thought to himself. _Why did he shot someone for me? He hasn't known me for too long. His expressions have always shown that he doesn't easily trust people…why would he trust me so soon? Why would he kill for me? _"Don't listen to any of that…"

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"It's nothing. Just the shock talking." Sherlock said, standing up to walk towards John.

"Sherlock?"

"Look at me, I've got a blanket, I'm in shock. Let me just go home and think this through… You can have my statement tomorrow…"

"Fine then." Lestrade said walking away. Sherlock smiled, throwing the absurd blanket away before ducking under the tape and walking to John's side.

"I told you the limp was psychosomatic." Sherlock commented.

"I knew it was… It still hurt like hell… Hurts like hell right now, now that you mention the bloody thing." John said truthfully.

"Good shot."

"Yes, must have been. Not many people could have done that. They said it was a handgun. That takes some skill." John said, acting stupid—dull as Sherlock might call it.

"I hope you got the powder burns out of your hands. I don't think you would serve time for shooting the criminal, but let's avoid the court case, alright? Where's the gun?" Sherlock asked.

"Bottom of the Thames." John nodded slowly, giving up the lie.

"Good." Sherlock smiled and patted John's shoulder as a sleek black car pulled up. "Good shot."

"There he is again…." John commented.

"Who?"

"Your archenemy." John nodded towards Mycroft who walked slowly towards the pair.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped angrily.

"Making sure you were alive." Mycroft replied dryly.

"I am, no thanks to you."

"Yes, well I knew you'd be safe. Seems John's always carrying a gun with him." Mycroft smiled slightly. "I think that would be a perfect warm up to the conversation I mentioned earlier, John."

"Mycroft—"

"Whatever he wants you to do, don't do it. Mycroft has already meddled with my life far too much. Don't let him meddle with yours, John." Sherlock said adamantly.

"Yes, of course… John knows I'm right though… I can see it in his eyes." Mycroft smiled. "Nice to see you again Doctor Watson. Am I to assume your moving into 221B is permanent? And am I to send some sort of house-warming gift?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to John.

"Hungry?"

"Starved." John agreed.

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will have something made up."

"Not your housekeeper." John mimicked with a giggle. Sherlock laughed as well as they walked away, not caring that they were laughing in the middle of a crime scene. Sherlock and John walked home in companionable silence, occasionally smiling at each other when their eyes met.

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Awe, cute already... Is John going to tell Sherlock? Mycroft is really nosy isn't he? I wanted him to be like that. :D

Reviews please? Something...anything...


	6. What's Your Name, John?

Last chapter of part one coming up. Part two will follow when it' finished (well, probably not exactly when it is finished, as I will not have internet at that moment most likely). Anyway, hope you like this...

Review please?

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What's Your Name, John?

John and Sherlock walked up the stairs into 221B and into their flat. John was tired, hoping to just go to bed but he never made it there. Sherlock pushed John into a chair the instant they entered the flat and practically hovered over John, glaring down into John's very soul. "You have some explaining to do, John." Sherlock said, his grey eyes boring into John's.

"What do you mean?" John asked, hoping to sit up, the position wasn't comfortable for his shoulder.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked with narrowed eyes. John had the sudden feeling that he was being x-rayed by Sherlock, turned inside out by his dedutive abilities.

"John Watson, and trying to get some rest, my leg is killing me-not to mention my shoulder now that it's been pressed against this chair."

"You are lying to me. I don't know _why_ you are lying to me, but you are. Something doesn't add up about you John. In fact a lot of things don't." Sherlock observed leaning away just enough so that John could adjust into a more comfortable position for his injured shoulder. "You are obviously a good person. You are not one of my enemies, or else you would have let me die back there…but that too doesn't add up. You killed a man for me, John, for a sociopath who cares for no one. You yourself have trust issues—as seen by the way you acted around Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson, not to mention Mycroft. How is it that you trust in me enough to kill a man within less than a day? It doesn't seem right, especially not from a man who has just come home from a war and is experiencing PTSD."

"I—"

"Let's start with something simple first… What's your name, John? Your real name if you would be so kind."

"Jonathan Martin Freeman…" John muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably-though his arm was no longer the problem, nor was his leg an issue.

"You hate that name, which means you either hate what it stands for or the person who gave it to you." Sherlock's eyes widened as he came to a new conclusion about the small man in the chair in front of him. "I see… You were an abused child, you probably moved around a lot when you were young, only stayed in one place until someone ended up in a hospital again. Drunk father or mother then? Ah…father, the wince gave it away—though the mother was of no use to you." Sherlock nodded knowingly, his hands still hovering above John's shoulders on the chair. "Why would you feel the need to hide that from me? Pride? Shame? Army man, wouldn't want to look weak…understandable. You needn't worry about that." John looked slowly up at Sherlock who had pulled his hands away and held them under his chin, as if n prayer. "Why keep the name John if it is so close to your old name? Why do that? Someone you cared about must have called you that, someone you loved or else you would have ditched the name entirely."

"Sherlock…I only ever had one friend…" John said slowly.

"They called you John then, obviously." Sherlock nodded briskly.

"Yes—"

"And you cared for them, a lot?"

"Still do." John agreed.

"Ah…you were forced to leave them, you are bitter about it. Your father must have beaten you to a pulp—or your brother was beaten sensless—and you had to relocate away from this person you cared for, unable to contact them ever again. By the time you were free you thought it was best to leave them to their own devices, to not trouble them with your sad past. You thought that they had forgotten about you, that you were forgettable in their eyes."

"Yes—"

"Ah…see…not so hard now was it? You never need to lie to me, nor attempt to keep things from me. I will figure them out. It's not so hard now that it's out now right?" Sherlock asked before he stood up straight and began to turn away, no longer glaring into John's soul.

"Let me see what I can deduce about you, Sherlock." John said quietly, surprising Sherlock if his raised eyebrow and curious face were anything to go by.

"Oh? I've never heard of anyone who has wanted to try, this could be interesting." Sherlock said, plopping down on the sofa. John stood up and walked over to Sherlock's side.

"You wince slightly when people call you names, you don't realize you do it, but you do. Somehow the names bother you even if you don't consciously realize it." John started before he began to roll up Sherlock's sleeves. "You work with your sleeves rolled up. You care about your suits and don't want them ruined by the chemicals and flames. Whether you like to always look perfect or you just wish to save money rather than ruining them is beyond me—though I think it might be vanity, as your suits are perfectly talored to fit you." John commented. "You are self-conscious about your arms. As I rolled up your sleeves you twitched slightly, which makes me think you have something to hide."

"John don't—" John examined the scar patterns on Sherlock's arm.

"Self-harm… So the bullying as you were growing up did hurt you—it's obvious you did this when you were growing up, the scars are old, Sherlock." John added at Sherlock's confused face. "Freak. Strange, Fag. All written out several times… Along with one word that appears more often then all of the rest combined. _John._" John's eyes watered, the man in front of him had carved _his_ name into his skin, over and over and over again.

"Please don't. It isn't—"

"I'm well aware that it has nothing to do with me." John commented, knowing the opposite was true. "The amount of times it was written and where it was carved show me this boy was someone you cared for greatly. Romantic attachment possibly." Sherlock nodded helplessly, tears in his eyes, for once he was stunned silent. "Someone you possibly even loved…someone you felt didn't return that love."

"Obviously not…" Sherlock hissed, not even attempting to pull his arm away from the army doctor.

"He left you, didn't he? He had stopped your pain, made you feel human again. You were going to tell him you loved him and he never showed up, didn't he? He just left you alone, making you feel worthless, unloved in a world that would never understand you, never appriciate your genius." John's heart was breaking for poor Sherlock whose face was now soaked with tears.

"Yes…god…" Sherlock moaned covering his eyes.

"You hate Mycroft because he saved you, made you live a life full of pain, without the one you loved." John finished. Sherlock nodded, sniffling. "John Smith should have made it to you that night… He would have made it to you, but his father found his hidden Journal… A Journal that had writings in it depicting a perfect, brilliant, amazing young boy. That father thought his son was a disappointment, nothing more than a faggot. He broke several of his son's ribs that night, re-broke a wrist, sprained an arm…left huge gashes all over John's skin… That boy never cried for the wounds though, only that he would never see you again. The father had to take his family away…so that no one would know who had done that to John…but you never saw him again… You never saw John again. You thought he had just left you."

"John…I never told you John's last name…" Sherlock said looking up into John's eyes. John got up onto the couch, straddling Sherlock's legs and holding Sherlock's face tenderly in his hands, not caring about Sherlock's personal space in the slightest.

"You didn't have to tell me his name, Sherlock… I had many aliases in my life, Sherlock, but that was one I never forgot." John said, kissing Sherlock's cheeks gently, hoping to kiss away the pain and tears. He gently wiped away the streaks on his friend's face with a sad frown on his face.

"John?" Sherlock asked softly with wide eyes.

"It's me, Sherlock…"

"How can I know that for sure?" Sherlock wondered.

"Because you were supposed to play me the violin that night… I was supposed to sneak in through the side gate that night, sneak into the west wing to find you… I guess I'm a lousy boyfriend aren't I? I never did make it there." John frowned.

"While I was pouting…you were being beaten senseless?" Sherlock asked in a broken tone, wrapping his arms arounf John's waist, holding him to himself.

"More or less." John shrugged. "We have some scars that match now, Sherlock." Sherlock's hands cupped John's face gently.

"How didn't I see it? Why didn't I notice that you were being beaten? The signs were all around me. The coats and always long trousers… The sneaking around, the lies, the days you would just ask to cry on my shoulder… God John was I blind? I could have stopped that, I could have saved you and Harriet—ah! A sister not a brother as I thought earlier."

"Yeah…a sister…" John agreed. "Don't worry Sherlock, even you miss some things."

"No I don't…not like that, not when it matters so much to me…" Sherlock frowned, leaning his head against John's chest.

"It's all over now, it doesn't matter…" John sighed but then pushed Sherlock away slightly glaring into grey eyes. "I told you to stop cutting yourself."

"Like you said, it's all over now." Sherlock agreed.

"Morphine, Sherlock?" John asked furiously

"John—"

"Cocaine for god's sake Sherlock?" John was livid.

"I love you John! I wasn't going to live without you dammit!" Sherlock hissed. John sighed and closed his eyes. "John…do you…do you still?"

"I love you too, Sherlock. Always have." John promised.

"But you tried to move on." Sherlock observed.

"I never thought I would see you again."

"Understandable, I don't blame you."

"No one ever came close to you, Sherlock, no one ever could."

"Nothing came close to you John…" Sherlock agreed, leaning in and kissing John full on the lips, a loving, tender kiss that spoke volumes to John, whose whole body lit on fire with passion for the man next to him.

"John…you said 'matching scars'…what did you mean about that?"

"My father…he had a…row with my back it seems."

"Let me see…

"No." John stated trying to pull away but Sherlock pulled him closer, gripping his lower back.

"John." Sherlock stated in his 'no nonsense' tone. John sighed as Sherlock pulled of John's jumper before grabbing onto his undershirt. John grabbed his hands to stop him.

"You don't have to." John protested.

"Yes I do… I have to see so I can figure out how horrific your father's death is going to be. I do hope you don't mind covering up for the murder I will commit, I promise I will leave no evidence behind as I know exactly how to commit a perfect murder."

"He's already dead… Died in prison…thank you though." John blushed slightly.

"Let me see…please. You've seen my scars, John…" Sherlock insisted.

"Alright." John sighed, letting go of Sherlock's hands before he stood up. Sherlock pulled John's undershirt off before he moved to sit behind John, staring at the large pink scar on John's shoulder before his eyes wandered to the older scars. _Fag, Faggot, Idiot, Sherlock… _They were all carved into John's perfect flesh, making Sherlock whimper.

"He did this to you because your Journal said that I cut…didn't it?" John didn't move, but that gave him away. "Oh John…" Sherlock cried, wrapping his arms tightly around John, pressing his chest into John's back, kissing his scarred shoulder gently. "I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Might as well have been…" He sighed.

"Tired?" John wondered.

"Exhausted suddenly." John nodded and pulled Sherlock to his feet. John slowly unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and pushed it off of Sherlock's shoulders before leading Sherlock into his bedroom. He sat Sherlock down on his bed but Sherlock grabbed his hand tightly. "Don't leave me here…not alone. Please stay."

"Always, Sherlock." John promised, laying behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the world's only consulting detective.

"We'll talk in the morning…"

"Of course…" John commented, pressing his bare chest against Sherlock's back as Sherlock grabbed his hands.

"Goodnight, John…"

"Goodnight, Sherlock…"

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End of part 1. Please tell me how i did? Somehow? Please? Thank you. At least they are together now! :)


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